


Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk

by Frolmes



Series: The Curious Tales of the British Government [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Mycroft Has An Eating Disorder, everything will be alright
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:46:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frolmes/pseuds/Frolmes
Summary: Nature and nurture, that was how he ended up in this mess. From Mummy's constant whining about how many peas were on his plate, to Father's disappointment that he didn't try out for the football team. From Sherlock's mean words, to bullies at school, and the simple fact that Mycroft probably always had a genetic "advantage" for developing an eating disorder.But the British Government doesn't have time to have a mental illness, not at all. So when a certain silver fox comes along, everything is shaken up.Aka how love doesn't cure anything, but helps a lot."And then there's those other thingsWhich for several reasons we won't mentionEverything about 'em is a little bit strangerA little bit harderA little bit deadly"
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Curious Tales of the British Government [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164620
Comments: 55
Kudos: 80





	1. Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> This is set before Reichenbach-fall, or at least pretends it never happened. This work is set after The Hounds of Baskerville, so just imagine that the rest of the series never happened.  
> I really appreciate comments, so please leave them!  
> I hope you'll enjoy this work.

Mycroft Holmes was a noble man. A man entirely devoted to his work, his brother(secretly, of course, Sherlock certainly didn’t know), and to his body.

To Mycroft, his body was his worst enemy and his biggest achievement. To be in control of it, to form it as he wished, to see the changes as he fought for them. Oh yes, to Mycroft Holmes, his body was the thing to which he was the most devoted.

On a typical morning, breakfast was a cup of black coffee, zero calories. No sugar, milk, cream, or sweetener, just black coffee, brewed strong enough so that he would have energy for the day to come, strong enough so that the three hours of sleep he got(on a good day) would be enough.

Then he would go into the Diogenes, into his private room in the back, and ask for a piece of cake that he would throw away, hiding it with paper, so that the person emptying his trash would not notice. It was all about facades. All about maintaining the picture of him being healthy. Anthea hadn’t noticed yet(or had she?), so surely, this must be working for him.

Hours of paper work went by quickly, and at eleven o’clock in the morning, he would have his first cup of tea, same as the coffee: No sugar, milk, or sweetener.

Having been awake since early, probably since 5 o’clock in the morning, he would need the tea, the caffeine, to keep him alert. Can’t have the British Government tired or sloppy, that surely would be dangerous.

A typical day for Mycroft included paper work, meetings, urgent phone calls from distressed Prime Minister(s), and sometimes, the President of the United States(who used to be the worst person Mycroft could imagine wandering this Earth, but since the last election, was an almost pleasant man), and, of course, keeping tabs on his brother. Sherlock was difficult, and even though Mycroft enjoyed a puzzle, Sherlock was the most unsolvable one. Fortunately, he had been clean for a good amount of time, since the army doctor moved in. Mycroft quite liked Watson and his ability to get Sherlock out of trouble. Of course, he was as good as getting him into it as he was at getting him out of it, but something for something, Mycroft thought.

Work days were unpredictable, both in tasks and in length. Mycroft quite liked it that way, though, keeping himself busy, partly because he would be going crazy without it, restlessness being his biggest weakness, partly because no one would expect him to eat when North Korea was threatening Britain again, and he had to straighten it all out.

The worst thing Mycroft knew, though, were lunch meetings. That meant he was expected to eat, it would be rude not to. He would hate it, picking at the food, eating small bites, then throwing it up in the bathroom the farthest away from the conference room afterwards.

He absolutely hated it, knowing that he would have to run at least a dozen kilometres on his treadmill when he got home.

On these days, he would not eat dinner.

Dinner, his first meal of the day, if he had been succesfull at avoiding a lunch meeting, usually consisted of a cup of tea and a piece of rye bread with cheese, no butter. Sometimes, he would eat a piece of chicken, or steamed vegetables(a small amount, of course), or maybe fish, no sides.

If he were particularly hungry, he would sometimes allow himself a small apple. Last time that happened was after Sherlock’s last overdose, almost two and a half years ago.

Mycroft didn’t like to allow himself anything other than the usual. It was pathetic to set rules and not stick to them, he thought. Rules are rules, and they’re there for a reason.

It wasn’t that everything was set in stone, and some days he would eat more. Of course, it would all have to end up in the toilet, two fingers down his throat always did the trick.

Some days, he wouldn’t eat at all.

Mycroft, however, was not a stupid man. He was always careful, knowing that the human body could go up to forty days with no food, but he also knew that that was not the case without water. He never dehydrated himself, always drinking plenty of water, tea, and coffee, although coffee did make him a bit nauseous on an empty stomach.

No, he wouldn’t ever dehydrate himself, at least not to the point of physical unwell-being. Who would want to faint in the middle of speaking to Putin, or in Sherlock’s apartment? Then everything would change, Mycroft would be locked up, and he was needed. He was needed _at_ work as much as _he_ needed work.

As Mycroft strolled down Baker Street, brolly in hand, he mentally kicked himself for letting Watson know he would be visiting.

“I have a case just perfect for Sherlock”, he had said, and whilst this was true, he dreaded seeing his younger brother.

They had been so close as children, and every meeting with him just tore at the heart he was told he didn’t have, when Sherlock looked him up and down and lifted both eyebrows in a silent “Oh, gained again? Can’t you control yourself?”.

In fact, Mycroft hadn’t gained for a very long time. He wouldn’t except Sherlock to see that. Sherlock did always see him as when they were children, Mycroft chubby, with red hair and freckles. Well, he hadn’t been chubby, Mycroft thought bitterly – he had been fat. A fat child with red hair and freckles, the perfect victim for school yard bullies.

He let out a sigh.

  
As he stopped outside flat 221B, he glanced at his pocket watch, nodding silently to himself. He had five minutes before he was awaited. Not in the good way, surely, but he was awaited, and it was his own fault.

With those long, pale fingers, he lifted the cigarette packet out of his pocket, elegant as ever as he put one cigarette in his mouth and lit it with the Zippo he was gifted by one Detective Inspector Lestrade for his latest birthday.  
It was a beautiful gift, a pretty silver lighter(that matched some of Lestrade’s hair, Mycroft had thought), with words engraved on the back.

“To M. H.,

Men at some time are masters of their fates,

From G. L.”

It was a beautiful quote. Of course, it was used in a play by Shakespeare by Cassius to convince Brutus to help him in the assassination of Caesar, but Mycroft was quite certain Gregory meant it well.

And he was quite certain the Detector Inspector had never once watched a play by Shakespeare.

As he stood there, cigarette in hand, dreading the forthcoming meeting with his brother, a man walked briskly in his direction, in long strides. Mycroft dared not look, knowing already to whom the steps belonged.

“Hello, Gregory,” he greeted him, puffing out smoke as he turned his head to greet Lestrade with a small smile.

The two were closer than one would think – after all, Gregory had worked with Sherlock for over four years.

Mycroft remembered how he had kidnapped the man to some abandoned warehouse, offering him money to spy on Sherlock, the exact same way he had offered to Watson.

He had refused, of course. Very well, for he would have been removed very quickly from Sherlock’s life had he accepted.

A smile appeared on Lestrade’s face, a warm smile, almost like a hug, Mycroft thought to himself, and looked away in embarrassment at the thought.

He would like to hug him. Of course, it wasn’t very professional; but neither were they. Not anymore.

In the start, they would drink take-away coffee in parks on benches, then go for lunches(Mycroft of course not eating whilst Lestrade would often order the salmon).

That turned into dinners on the days Mycroft had not had a lunch meeting, and he was very pleased that the Detective Inspector not once asked him why he always went to the loo after he had eaten.

Gregory was kind, warm, lovely, all the things Mycroft were not, and Mycroft … Well, he happened to really like him. Too much, maybe, he thought, and that very thought scared him to a degree that he very rarely did think about it.

How’s it going? And can I bum one?” Greg asked with that smile that made the other man’s knees turn into jelly.

Fortunately, Mycroft were quite disciplined in ignoring his body and its needs. In this case, it needed to sit down. Mycroft ignored it.

“May,” he corrected him, then handed him the packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

Gregory just grinned. Mycroft had a feeling he just used the misused English language to annoy him, but he didn’t say.

“What’re you doing here?” Gregory asked as he lit a cigarette and handed the packet back to the other.

Mycroft flicked the cigarette and looked to the sky as he answered.

“A case for Sherlock. It might even be a 9 or a 10. He will be ecstatic.”

“No doubt.”

They stood a little while in silence, smoking.

Then they went in.


	2. Chocolate Milk

Sherlock played the violin beautifully as his older brother sat before him. Gregory sat on the sofa next to Watson, and it took everything Mycroft had to not look over at the Detective Inspector.

Sherlock, of course, noticed. After all, he was a genius as well as his brother, but to Mycroft’s extreme luck, he didn’t mention Mycroft’s crush, didn’t let it out in the open.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow; the question was thick in the air between them.

“No,” Sherlock said.

“Why not?” Mycroft replied.

Then, silence.

Gregory took a sip from his coffee, loudly, as Watson looked confused to the Holmes-brothers. Mycroft began to understand why Sherlock liked him. Always confused, albeit smarter than Sherlock gave him credit for, not nearly as dumb as the rest of the goldfish in the world.

Mycroft let out a sigh and stood up, shaking just slightly, having not eaten the past three days. He nodded.

“Very well,” but he didn’t pick up the files he had put on the coffee table.

He knew Sherlock would break, sooner or later, and he’d rather not have to take time out of his schedule to go to Baker Street again.

With a goodbye-nod to Gregory and Watson, he swiftly, albeit a bit dizzily, made his way out of the door.

He almost made it to his car, when he heard the voice.

“Wait!”

Silently, he turned around.

Greg caught up to him, smile on his face and fingers fumbling. Mycroft’s eyebrow arched as he noticed.

The Detective Inspector surely wasn’t nervous talking to him? They were friends, so … why? Mycroft pushed the thought away to listen to what the man had to say.

“Do you want to go for lunch? I know a great place that serves _the best_ chicken!” he looked so happy, so hopeful, that Mycroft could not find it in himself to say no.

The heart wants what it wants, he thought, albeit what the heart wanted did not want him. It didn’t matter.

Mycroft was a cold man, the ice man,he was called. No heart, no sentiment, no caring. That’s what people thought, and, to a lesser extent, what he himself thought.

Deep down, though, he knew that it wasn’t that he didn’t feel _anything._ He was just very good at pushing it all away and dealing with it himself when time was right.

For example, after a gruesomely tiring, and honestly, stressful and heartbreaking, falling out with Sherlock when he was in the hospital after yet another overdose, Mycroft found himself going to the pastry shop, buying all the pastries he could carry(he could not let Anthea know what was happening, so therefore, he went by himself), and then he went home to eat every single one in just about a quarter of an hour.

Then he threw them all up again.

It wasn’t that Mycroft was vain. Well, he was, but that was not the only reason he restricted his eating.

It was the control, the power, to watch his actions pay off. That was quite the thrill, when he could see he weighed less than before, that his control was indeed control.

But, as always, there is more to the situation than what one might think.

First of all, the bullies in the school yard, when Mycroft had been a boy of merely 12 years, already going into a grade four grades up. They were relentless, clueless to what their actions would cause.

He wanted to get revenge, and what better revenge on the boys who called him fat, than to be so underweight that it was actually dangerous?

What better revenge than to prove them wrong? That he wasn’t the fat boy, he wouldn’t always be like this.

Of course, it made no sense, Mycroft knew that, he didn’t even talk to these boys, men, anymore, but their words had stung, and he wanted to prove them wrong.

Perhaps he also wanted to prove himself wrong. He had believed them. He had believed that he would always be the fat one, be big and ugly, red headed, fat, with freckles. Now, the red hair and the freckles he could do nothing about: But the weight, that was well in his hands.

As he made his way with Gregory by his side, he felt _the fear_.

The fear of what he’d order, how much of it he’d eat, the calories, the fat, the carbohydrates, the weight he’d put on.

That morning he’d weighed 60,3 kilograms, and even though it was nowhere near satisfactory, it was better than the 61,6 he’d weighed the morning before. Water weight, of course, he reminded himself. No one could lose 1,3 kilograms of fat that fast, but it was still … A victory. It had put a smile on his face.

Gregory was a talker. Mycroft knew that. As they walked, Gregory talked about how his ex-wife had written him a rather angry email, how the Yard had a lot of work, that Gregory hadn’t even been able to eat a proper meal in three days. The mention of “proper meals” made Mycroft a little pale, but Gregory didn’t notice.

He kept talking, Mycroft listened, nodding at the right moments, pitching in when he was supposed to.

It was nice.

But as soon as they stood in front of the restaurant, Mycroft felt faint. Not the “I haven’t eaten in three days, dear God help me”-faint, but the “Oh God, so many calories, what am I gonna do?”-faint.

But he didn’t say a word as Gregory held the door open for him and he went in, brolly in hand, clutching his the sleeve of his coat.

He composed himself, followed Gregory to a table, sat down without throwing up in the potted plants. He wanted to, though, so nervous, so _scared_.

Looking at the menu didn’t help. The Detective Inspector already knew what he wanted, that chicken he was talking about, with a side of pasta with a cheese sauce.

Mycroft wanted to throw up at the thought of goddamn _cheese sauce._

Scanning the pages, he grew pale. The menu didn’t say one word about the nutritional value of each meal, which meant he wouldn’t, couldn’t, be sure of how many calories he was putting in his body.

He loosened his tie.

In the end, Mycroft ordered a salad with chicken, no croutons, no dressing, and water’s fine, he said to the waiter.

Gregory lifted an eyebrow.

  
“A salad?”

  
“What’s wrong with salad? It’s healthy, you know.”

Gregory shrugged.

“I just thought you’d want something fancy, like … Salmon en croute, or something.”  
  
Salmon en croute wasn’t very fancy, but Mycroft didn’t say. Instead, he picked up his glass of water and took a sip.

No, salmon en croute wasn’t very fancy, and the calories in it … Mycroft didn’t even want to think about it.

Instead, he wanted to get the older man talking. Mycroft liked his voice, liked when Gregory spoke so passionately about something – football, perhaps.

“How are things going with Sherlock at the Yard. Must be a lot of help, I imagine?” Mycroft asked, sipping his water.

Gregory nodded.

“Well, the bloke’s a pain in the ass, but he sure knows how to solve a murder,” he laughed the warm, kind laugh that Mycroft had found himself adoring even though he’d never admit.

Everything was nice. It was indeed lovely talking to Gregory, listening to his doings, but as the time went on, and the meals were probably soon to be taken to their table, Mycroft began sweating. He wasn’t very hot, he was actually pretty cold, but the stress of this all made him sweat.

Gregory noticed.

  
“Are you alright, yeah?”

Mycroft merely nodded.

He wasn’t, but that wasn’t for Gregory to know.

“You look very pale, Mycroft, what’s going on?”

“Stress.”

With lifted eyebrows, Gregory nodded, and Mycroft realised his mistake. He would never admit to being stressed, not even to Gregory, but as it seemed, Gregory didn’t push the matter.

He just looked to the waiter with two plates, one in each hand, and looked delightfully happy.

Mycroft did not.

There was no silence as they ate, Gregory filling the space between them with gentle laughter, small stories, and his annoyance with Sherlock.

Mycroft listened to every word, pushing his salad around on the plate, only eating the lettuce. He almost got cocky and ate a bit of chicken, but stopped himself before doing something he’d regret.

Gregory looked on in worry, internal worry.

He knew, from Sherlock, that Mycroft had had a problem as a child with food – with eating too much, then too little, then throwing it up.

Sherlock had been very stern when he said: “If you’re really so in love with my brother, then take care of him. Make sure he eats. If you want him, you’ve got to take all of him, eating disorders and his weird like of green tea.”

Gregory had nodded profusely, red from head to toe, before he had excused himself out of the Baker Street flat.

And the Detective Inspector had really tried his best, still did. He had taken Mycroft out to lunches and dinners, then hating himself when he didn’t stop the younger man from going to the bathroom to throw it up. Of course that was what was happening, he was sure. Sherlock was never wrong.

Sure enough, when the salad was gone, at least half of it, Mycroft excused himself to the bathroom.

Gregory didn’t follow him.

As Mycroft sat alone in his flat that evening, he wanted to just scream.

Scream at everything, himself in particular. He fancied the bloody bloke, Gregory, and he couldn’t even be polite and talk with him and eat his damn food like a normal person.

Angrily, he stood up. Dizzyness overtook him, and it took everything in his power to get to the fridge, opening it, looking around for something with sugar in it. He needed the sugar, whether he wanted it or not.

Thin, cold fingers gripped the chocolate milk and he drank thirstily, til there was nothing left.

Then he passed out on the kitchen floor.


	3. Couple of my Cravings

When he woke up on his own kitchen floor, with a throbbing head, it was the eyes of the Detective Inspector he looked into.

Gregory sat on his knees, looking worriedly at Mycroft, wondering how this happened, why this happened – and why he let it happen. He referring to both of them.

Gregory knew his head was far too close to Mycroft’s, but he did not care in the slightest, every thought running through his head told him to get Mycroft a cup of tea and a damp wash cloth to put on his forehead.

All while Lestrade was panicking, Mycroft couldn’t take his eyes off Gregory’s face. It was beautiful, the eyes a beautiful colour, and in his disoriented state, Mycroft wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

So he did.

He lifted his head, pulled Gregory down, kissed him and himself senseless, before letting go of Lestrade and then knocking his head on the floor.

Knocking himself unconscious, again.

When he woke up this time, he found himself on his bed, under his expensive duvet and on his silk sheets.

Gregory was nowhere to be found, much to Mycroft’s disappointment.

With a groan, Mycroft turned, and as the duvet fell of him, he found himself to be in his pyjamas. He _almost_ blushed at the thought of Gregory helping him out of his clothes and into his night time wear. It was almost too good to be true – the only thing better would be if Mycroft had actually been awake, and it had been because Gregory _wanted_ to, and not because he _had_ to.

The creaking of the door pulled Mycroft out of thought, and he felt as if his eyes were about to pop out of his head, as Lestrade walked into the room with a tray in his hands.

As he came closer, Mycroft noticed that on it was a plate full of home-made food and a glass of milk, and next to the plate, a cup of steaming tea, made the way Mycroft liked it.

He looked at the food, fearful, but knowing well enough that he needed it. A lot. Needed it a lot, after just passing out on his kitchen floor.

And then, the great Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, the genius, blushed at Gregory’s cheeky grin.  
  
“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Or should I say, knocking himself unconscious-beauty?”

Once again, Mycroft groaned as Lestrade put down the tray on the bed, and the younger man reached for the milk and gulped it down in one go.

Lestrade laughed a laugh from deep down his stomach, and Mycroft tried to ignore the flutter of his heart.

  
“Eat up, Holmes, or I’ll take you to the hospital, ‘right?”

And even though the Detective Inspector looked and sounded so warm, there was seriousness in his eyes, a seriousness Mycroft only ever saw when Lestrade had to threaten Sherlock to stay nice or be kicked off the murder scene.

So he ate.

Every last bite, he ate, hungrily, starving, famished.

Gregory looked upon with happiness knowing that the powerful man was taking care of himself, even if the little voice inside his head told him he’d have to physically hold Mycroft down so he would not go to the bathroom and throw it all up.

And not surprisingly, when Mycroft finished, he looked at his watch, lips pursed, and said with the silky smooth voice that had gotten him the ‘Ice Man’-nickname:

“I need to use the bathroom.”

He stood up, shaking a bit.

  
“No,” Gregory said.  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“No.”

Mycroft looked him directly in the eye, trying to find something on his face telling him why Gregory wouldn’t let him go to the bathroom.

But he knew.

They both did.

  
“What if I have to urinate – which I do,” Mycroft loved testing his skills at manipulation, but Gregory wasn’t having it.

“Oh, you do, do ya? I’ll stand on the other side of the door, listening, then,” Gregory said, for they both knew not even Mycroft Holmes could throw up that silent.

Silence laid upon them. Gregory had won. It was obvious.

Mycroft sat down again, defeated, something he had not been since living at home with Sherlock, Sherlock getting the last piece of cake just because: “Mycroft, you’re already big enough. Too big’”

He sighed.

With closed eyes, it was the mattress that told Mycroft that Gregory had sat down next to him.

Without opening his eyes and admitting defeat, Mycroft said:

“What do you want?”

Silence.

  
“I want you to let me help you.”

Silence.

  
“Why?”

Throat being cleared, Gregory hesitated.

  
“Because you need it.”

Mycroft scoffed.

  
“That’s not the truth, and you know it.”

It wasn’t that it wasn’t true; it was that it wasn’t Gregory’s real reasoning behind it, and they both knew that.

“I …,” Gregory tried to compose himself, “I really like you, Mycroft, and I don’t – I don’t want you to die.”

The way his voice almost died out at the end of the sentence told Mycroft he was speaking the truth.

Carefully opening his eyes, he found himself carefully analysing Gregory’s face to find out if this was just some cruel prank.

He could say so many things: That he wouldn’t die, that he was perfectly capable of taking care of this himself, that he had doctors and nurses if everything went wrong.

But he didn’t say that.

“You like me?” he asked, vulnerability in his voice, that he tried to cover up by coughing.

Gregory nodded, though.

  
“Were you ever really doubting that?” he said and let his rugged, copper’s hand take Mycroft’s soft, cold, pale one, making the younger man’s breath hitch.

“Yes.”

They both awaited what else Mycroft would say, obviously he was not done talking. The rest of the sentence was in the air like a haze.

“I just thought I was misreading the signs. Not something I would normally do, pardon, but I – I thought it was wishful thinking.”

Lestrade laughed softly, tracing circles on Mycroft’s palm.

“You should never doubt yourself. It was quite obvious, wasn’t it? I’ve been dying to hold you, to kiss you, to call you mine, but … You’re the British Government, for fucks sake, and I wasn’t sure if you’d ever fancy some bloke like me – a copper.”

This time, Mycroft laughed, but he didn’t get to for a long time, for Greg slowly pulled him closer by his pyjama-top, and before Mycroft could think, their lips were pushed together again.

Quiet. All quiet, no thoughts, no fear, no calories, calories, calories. Just Gregory. It was always Gregory.

Mycroft’s head did not think one thought except of the one he was kissing, so soft, so tender, so insecure, but Mycroft, this was what he had been longing for for so many cold years. And now? Now everything was warm.

Of course, Mycroft’s entire body was cold, but his insides were so warm, so filled with the love he had been pushing back.

And when Gregory pulled back, Mycroft knew that he felt the same way.

They sat in bed for a long time, just talking.

Well, at first they sat. Then Mycroft got dizzy again, and as Gregory got a couple of cookies – and the cigarettes, Mycroft had been very clear that he wanted cigarettes, too –, Mycroft had laid down.

He ate the cookies, with bad guilt, then he snuggled closer to the Detective Inspector, never imagining he’d one day be lying in his arms.

Was this happiness?

Mycroft was quite sure.

“I never normally smoke in here,” Mycroft said whilst lighting a cigarette, still in bed, “But I can’t be bothered to go to the balcony.”

Gregory laughed as he pulled a cigarette out of the packet and lit it with the same Zippo he had gifted Mycroft years prior.

“I can’t believe you still have this,” he looked at the quote on the back, ran a thumb across the words in the same way Mycroft always did when he missed Gregory.

“How could I not? Even though the quote is quite … Wrongly used,” and Mycroft laughed a laugh that made the Heaven’s and all it’s angels sing, Gregory wondering how he had gotten so lucky.

Gregory laughed as well just because Mycroft did. It was infectious, and Gregory pulled Mycroft a tad closer.

Oh, if they could stay like this forever, that would be Heaven on Earth.

“You and my cigarettes … These are just a couple of my cravings,” Mycroft whispered and puffed out a bit of smoke.

  
“Yeah? What are the others?” Gregory asked.

“Candyfloss, Oreos, cake,” Mycroft began listing and Gregory laughed again.

In his head, the Detective Inspector made a point to buy Mycroft Oreos and take him out for tea and cake.

No way in Hell had he imagined that the worst of this had not even begun.


	4. A Little Bit Stronger

“Why were you in my house? How did you get in? Do you know how much money I pay for security?” Mycroft asked as they were lying in each others arms.

Gregory chuckled.

“Anthea let me in. I … Wanted to surprise you with a dinner,” he admitted, and Mycroft went red with gratefulness and pale with fear over the word ‘dinner’.

Silence laid upon them, and just when Mycroft thought Gregory was asleep, he mumbled a question under his breath in the darkened room.

  
“I just want you to know, that wherever and whenever you want to talk to me about … Your food issues, I’m here, yeah?”

Mycroft stiffened, but nodded.

  
“I’ll remember that, thank you.”

Gregory smiled.

And when he fell asleep, it was in Mycroft’s arms.

Morning had broken, just like the first morning, but as Mycroft rolled over in search of the warm body he had slept beside, he was greeted by nothing but the cold.

His eyes opened rather quickly, and looking upon the bed, it surely seemed as if Gregory were gone. His clothes, too.

What had he expected after all, Mycroft asked himself? Surely, Gregory had awoken during the night and realised his mistake.

Even though he knew what had happened, he couldn’t help himself but to search his whole flat for just a trace of Gregory.

And when he found none, at least he knew where his whiskey was.

Whiskey glass in hand in his office, Mycroft realised there and then that it was pointless. He couldn’t get his brother to at least tolerate him, his dear baby brother, he couldn’t get the handsome Detective Inspector to fancy him, he couldn’t do anything right.

So there and then he decided to get so drunk he would forget everything.

What a mistake that was.

As Mycroft poured his fifth(or was it sixth?) drink, he heard someone, or something, moving inside the apartment, and curiously, he tried to stand up.

With a loud noise, Mycroft was on the floor once again.

This was starting to become quite an annoying habit.

With a groan, Mycroft opened his eyes. Once again, he was looking directly into the beautiful eyes of the Detective Inspector, and he laughed, almost giddily.

“What on Earth are ya doin’?” Gregory asked, a worried and almost angry expression on his face.

“It seems that I have fallen?”

“Why?”

  
“Because everything it seems I like’s a little bit stronger than what’s good for me,” Mycroft laughed again.

This did not make Gregory any less worried or mad.

But alas, he did take Mycroft by the arm and pull him up, helping him to the couch. Just then, Mycroft noticed the paper bags Gregory was carrying.

“What are those?” Mycroft slurred.

Gregory huffed.

“Breakfast.”

The guilt hit Mycroft instantly, like it had been shot into his veins. He swallowed, still too drunk to be polite.

“So you didn’t realise your mistake?”  
  
“Which mistake?”  
  
“Me.”

Instantly, Gregory’s face softened, and he sat down next to Mycroft, placing the paper bags on the coffee table.

A rugged hand placed itself on Mycroft’s cold one, and as Gregory moved closer to him, he whispered:  
  
“You’re no mistake. You're the best thing to ever happen to me.”

And as they kissed, Mycroft believed him. He obviously wouldn’t when he was sober again, but for now, he believed him with ever fiber in his being.

Then, he realised, Gregory was the best thing to happen to him, too.

In his drunken state, Mycroft ate all his breakfast: The bagel with cream cheese, the small breakfast-cake, and he drank his tea, thirstily, with some nausea.

They talked during, but Gregory quickly came to realise just _how_ drunk Mycroft was, when he tried to stand to put the paper bags in the trash.

“Whoah,” Gregory said and quickly stood to make sure Mycroft didn’t fall, “Are you sure you shouldn’t be lying down right now?”

“Right now I am not sure of anything,” Mycroft replied.

So with those words, Gregory helped the other man lie down on the couch and put a blanket over him.

With sleepy eyes Mycroft smiled up at him.

  
“Thank you,” he mumbled, and as he got comfortable and closed his eyes, he mumbled other words, that made Gregory’s whole body go numb: “Love you.”

Gregory didn’t know what to say.

When Mycroft awoke several hours later, with an aching head and body, the whole room was dark.

“Gregory?” he tried calling out with a hoarse voice and a scratchy throat, sitting up.

And this time, Gregory wasn’t gone. He stood in the door with a cheeky grin on his face, stars in his eyes, and Mycroft sighed happily.

He laid back down, head throbbing.

With long strides Lestrade made his way to the couch, lifted Mycroft’s legs to sit down and place them on his lap.

“What’s up, drunken beauty?” he grinned.

“I’m not particularly drunk anymore.”

Silence laid upon them as Gregory gathered up the courage to ask what he feared, ask if Mycroft had meant what he said as he drunkenly went to sleep.  
  
“Myc,” he began and laughed as Mycroft grimaced at the nickname, “Did you …?”

But he couldn’t say anymore. It was pointless, though, for Mycroft remembered, flushed a bright shade of pink, and nodded.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I always have.”

Then Gregory understood, and he flushed a lovely shade of pink as well as he leaned towards Mycroft to kiss him.

“You know I love you, too? Always have,” he whispered against the lips of his lover.

And only then could Mycroft relax, having everything he ever hoped for. Even though his brother would never tolerate him, he had the love of the one he loved, and for that, he could not be more grateful.

  
“This is not going to be easy, though,” Mycroft warned him, but was utterly surprised by the laugh those words earned him.

“I know.”

They kissed again.

For days, they stayed in Mycroft’s apartment, talking, making love, and just enjoying each other – and each other’s company.

But the guilt deep inside Mycroft would not take an end. Gregory made him eat, sure, but he couldn’t stop him from running to the bathroom, throwing every single item he’d eaten up. It was so easy to say he’d take a shower, or that he had a funny tummy because he’d been eaten more lately.

Gregory knew, though. It was obvious, and there was nothing he could do about it. He could cry, yell, and leave, but he wouldn’t – except he did cry. He would sit outside the bathroom, tears silently making their way across his face, and he would cry til he heard the toilet flush, and then he’d run to the kitchen and pretend as if he’d been making tea all along.

It killed him. It killed _them._

But as days went by, Gregory’s holiday ran out, and he had to go to work again. Work with Sherlock, Mycroft thought, and it wasn’t the first time he’d been jealous of Sherlock.

He wouldn’t go with, even though Gregory offered – he had his own work.

So he actually went to work for the first time in days.

Anthea was pleasantly surprised to see him.

“Good morning, sir,” she said as she brought him his paper work.

“Good morning,” he said as he browsed through all the papers, and she left.

Hours after hours of paper work later, and the sun was setting. Mycroft felt like himself again, but it wasn’t as great as he had thought it would be. He didn’t want to be starving, over-working himself-Mycroft.

He wanted to be the Mycroft he was with Gregory. He wanted to be with Gregory.

And there and then, he decided to ask Gregory to be his partner. They were surely too old to use the term “boyfriends”; but that was what Mycroft wanted. To be Gregory’s boyfriend, and Gregory his.

He fished the phone out of his pocket just as it rang.

‘John Watson’, the display read.

Worried – what had Sherlock done now? –, he picked up and with a silky smooth voice, he asked:

“Watson? Is Sherlock okay?”

“Greg’s in the hospital, you better come now. They are saying … It’s serious, Mycroft, please come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, but I promise everything will be alright!  
> Thank you for reading, please leave a comment x


	5. A Little Bit Deadly

Everything went in slow-motion. Running down the halls, the clean white halls of the hospital, Mycroft felt as if he might die.

Partly because he hadn’t eaten all day, mostly because Gregory, oh God, Gregory.

Everything was blurry, the pain breathtaking, and Mycroft wondered if this was what great novels were made of. Pain, the stabbing pain, the tears in his eyes, the fear of losing the one he’d live for.

For he’d live for Greg. He’d die for him as well, but that was of no use, even if he knew that if Greg did, he’d have nothing left. Nothing.

No one to make him eat, no one to make him laugh, no one to make him watch those terrible tv-shows that made him cringe, no one to make him cry of happiness.

Nothing. He’d really be left back with nothing left to live for.

Watson was the first face Mycroft saw.

A blurry Watson, but a Watson, nonetheless.

Then he saw Sherlock, pacing the floor of the hospital, looking so worried, a worry he never felt for Mycroft, but in that moment, Mycroft couldn’t care less.

  
“What happened? What are they saying?” Mycroft asked, out of breath and out of his mind.

“Well …-,” Watson started, but got cut off by Sherlock, who just then realised his older brother had made his entrance, and not his usual, icy, elegant entrance, but a desperate, painful entrance.

And Watson noticed, for he put a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, which was meant to calm him down, but did the opposite.

“You!” Sherlock pointed to Mycroft with a shaky finger, “How dare you show up here? It’s your fault, all of it!”

As Watson tried to hush Sherlock – nurses were beginning to walk their way –, Sherlock continued, walking threateningly towards his brother.

“He did this for _you_! If Geoff dies because of _you_ , I will personally kill you!”

Mycroft’s whole body stiffened. Watson looked quite awkward, and the nurses asked Sherlock to please calm down, there are patients sleeping or fighting for their lives.

Sherlock, quite displeased, huffed and sat down on a hospital chair with his head in his hands.

“What did he mean?” Mycroft asked, a broken shell of a man.

Watson cleared his throat, awkwardly.

  
“Well, the Yard had … They picked up on a security threat against your house. Some gang wanted to, well, kill you, I ‘spose, and Greg got a little carried away. Are you two …?” Watson quickly realised his mistake and continued, “Well, Greg went to get them on his own, and, yeah, they beat him – oh, and shot him.”

This was his fault.

This was his fault and his alone, Gregory wanted to protect him, and look where it got him, and oh, the pain …

Slowly, the British Government fell to the floor on his knees. Mycroft had never loved before, and if this was love, he didn't want it.

When Sherlock had been overdosing in those God awful crack-houses and Mycroft had stormed in to save him, that had been awful, but that hadn’t been his fault. Sherlock had chosen the drugs.

Gregory had never chosen to be shot.

For a long while, Mycroft was on the floor. Just sitting on his knees, trying to steady his breathing. Tears streaming silently down his face.

A nurse went by, then more nurses. Watson talked to a doctor, but Mycroft didn’t hear any of it.

He was no good. Mycroft was no good to anyone, he only brought pain and death, and he wouldn’t have it. He couldn’t live with himself if Gregory were to give his live for his, it didn’t work that way.

Mycroft was never supposed to live without him.

As Watson made his way over, Mycroft didn’t even bother looking up, til he said those words he had longed for:

“Do you want to see him?” Watson asked.

Then, Mycroft looked up.

“Is it a goodbye, or is he getting better?”

Watson cleared his throat.

“They don’t know. He’s unconscious, they say they can’t do much more than they’ve already done,” Watson surely didn’t look happy, and as he said those words, Sherlock stood up, angrily, swaying his coat behind him dramatically as he walked past Mycroft.

“Just because you’re shagging him, you get to see him. Congratulations,” he said, and then he was gone.

But Mycroft didn’t care. He had to, he needed to see Gregory.

So he followed the doctor.

The room was white, too white, machines beeping, and Mycroft weeping as he sat down beside the bed.

Gregory looked so pale in the hospital gown, and as he sat so close to the bed, he could see the dark circles beneath the Detective Inspector’s eyes, the dried blood made him nauseous as he looked at the wounds on his face and arms from the beating.

Thank God he couldn’t see the bullethole.

There and then, he decided he would murder whoever did this with his own bare hands.

“Gregory,” he whispered and carefully took his hand, not touching the needle in it.

He sobbed, silent sobs, nothing he’d ever tried before, the pain unbearable and confusing, but he didn’t want to think about how much worse it could get if Gregory did … Did die.

“How could I have done this to you? How could I not have protected you? It's all my fault. Forgive me, my love, forgive me, and come back to me.

For I could never live without you. I could never smile again, nor get out of my bed.

I could never watch the stars outside my window, could never let the sun shine on me, for those things are not worth anything to me without you.

How could I sleep, eat, let alone live with you gone?”

He let the words linger in the air.

“I’d have nothing left if you were to …,” Mycroft sobbed, “If you left me. Left us. Sherlock would go crazy without you and the jobs you give him, and I … I would go crazy without the love you give me.”

Gregory did not move, did not open his eyes, did not even move his hand to let Mycroft know he was there.

Mycroft had hoped, but the hope soon died. Maybe this _was_ it.

He stifled a sob.

“You’re the only one for me. You’re the only thing that means anything at all to me. I would take your place in a second if I could. Be shot for you, not you for me.

Who’s gonna annoy me, and who’s gonna love me, and who’s gonna be _you,_ if this kills you?

What is life worth without you? How could I not have prevented this? I prevent wars, I prevent treaties being broken, but how did I not prevent this? Prevent the harm of the only thing that means anything to me?

If you die, I …  
I would never forgive myself.

I would never live again.”

Broken sobs escaped Mycroft as the doctor came into the room and asked him to leave.

Mycroft stood, shakily, and leaned over to place a small kiss on the forehead of one Gregory Lestrade.

“I love you. I always have, I always will,” he whispered.

Then he left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, I'll fix everything soon enough!  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!  
> Thank you for all your comments, they mean the world to me!


	6. So Brokenhearted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a kind of boring chapter, I just needed to get this in there, as it would be unrealistic for anything to happen right away.  
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter - please leave comments, they make my day!
> 
> Thank you! ❤️

Mycroft remembered the first time he saw the Detective Inspector.

Sherlock was still a drug addict, something Mycroft had never been able to fix, like he fixed everything else.

But Gregory, as soon as Sherlock had stumbled upon his crime scene and solved the murder in one minute and fifty-two seconds, had fixed it. He had offered Sherlock a job, a job as a consulting detective, and it was fixed. It wasn’t an immediate fix, of course, but Sherlock got clean. Doctor Watson, of course, was the last missing piece in Sherlock’s life.

Mycroft had always felt he had no missing pieces. He had an amazing job, he was a career man. He needed no one else - not mummy, not father, not … Well, perhaps Sherlock.

But love? What was love, and why was it needed?

Sure, he had loved people in his life time. Or well … He had loved Sherlock, his baby brother. He had been a mother to him when mummy was too busy, he had been a father to him when father was too busy, he had basically raised the kid.

Then he had went away to university, and everything had changed.

The Sherlock who had loved Mycroft more than anything else changed. He didn’t need Mycroft anymore.

Mycroft had tried to keep in touch, writing letters, called, but when the letters weren’t answered and the calls weren’t answered, then he knew he had lost the one person who mattered.

His baby brother.

He had went through life with no one dear, no lover, no friends. No one to talk to except for Anthea, for prime ministers, for politicians. It was all he knew.

But somehow, it changed when Sherlock met Gregory.

Mycroft had bribed him, offered him an amount of money that would change his life – money that would change his life and be paid on a regular basis.

But Gregory had politely declined, and maybe already then, Mycroft knew this was the one. This was the man for him.

Mycroft had always known he was gay. It wasn’t something he talked about, it was something he ignored, for he didn’t need lovers, he didn’t need anyone. He, of course, had had a couple one night-stands just to try if he wanted a partner, but even though the encounters left him pleasantly satisfied, it wasn’t anything he’d need on a regular basis.

He’d never thought more of it, not until he met Gregory.

At first they’d buy take-away coffees and sit on park benches, just discussing Sherlock. Discuss if he was clean, how Watson had come into his life and probably saved him, how annoying he was.

Soon, Mycroft found himself telling Gregory about their childhood, how he had taken care of Sherlock, even how he found himself regretting that their relationship had fallen apart. How he blamed himself.

Surely, Mycroft wasn’t the type of person to tell anyone these things; but Gregory made it so easy. He was so kind, so listening, so warm, and Mycroft found himself spilling sore memories after sore memories.

Gregory never judged him, he was never unkind. Always understanding.

When Mycroft looked back, he thought that those coffee-dates must have been when he started to fall in love with the man.

Then came lunches.

Gregory talked about his oncoming divorce, his horrible wife, how he felt as if he had been cheated: He had been told love was forever, and it certainly wasn’t, but he had no one to blame but himself – and his wife. But it takes two to tango, as he had said, and it might’ve been both their faults, as well as no one’s fault. Sometimes people just fall out of love for no reason.

Gregory had looked sad, but Mycroft knew well enough it wasn’t because he was splitting up and still loved her: It was because he was splitting up and didn’t love her. Just because if he still loved her, he could save his marriage, but not loving her meant that the truth he had known his whole life was not a truth, but a lie. Love doesn’t always last.

That made Gregory sad.

Mycroft had another view on love. Although he didn’t need it, he always thought that if you really loved someone, it wouldn’t go away. It would always stay.

And when he told Gregory these thoughts, he had nodded, thoughtfully, and said.

  
“I think you’re right. Physical and mental attraction aren’t love, and I don’t think I … Maybe I never really loved her. We were young, and I didn’t know anything ‘bout love then. Now I do, and I know I don’t love her – had it been good old love back then, it would still be now. I think you’re quite right, Mycroft.”

Then he had smiled.

Mycroft had never imagined himself falling in love, however. He saw the way Watson looked at Sherlock – and the other way around –, and didn’t admit he envied them. He saw the love between them, both too dumb to say it, and he envied the way they felt about each other, completely ignoring the fact that that was how he felt about the Detective Inspector.

When lunches turned to dinner, that was when Mycroft knew he was in trouble.

Gregory talked so passionately about … Well, everything, and Mycroft felt himself opening up on another level, even admitting he’d felt lonely at times, something he’d never even admitted to himself.

And Gregory had smiled, sadly, but warmly, and said:  
  
“If you ever need a mate, I’m here, ‘right? I’ll always be here for you, Mycroft.”

Back then, Mycroft had felt warm. Not knowing how much he’d need him one day.

And now, he might be gone soon, without Mycroft getting a chance to tell him, to show him, how much he meant to him.

How Gregory was the only man, the only person, Mycroft wanted to spend his life with. How he couldn’t live without him.

For Gregory had saved Mycroft in a very real way, in a way that Mycroft didn’t know he had needed to be saved.

But now he knew, and he couldn’t un-know. He couldn’t forget that Gregory was everything he wanted, everything he needed. Like air, Mycroft thought, as he sat in his office, two weeks had passed since Gregory had been … Shot.

It was difficult to breathe after Gregory had been shot, it was like the air wouldn’t go into his lungs.

Like his lungs wouldn’t do their work.

And his heart? It definitely wasn’t working properly. Beating too slowly, beating from the pit of his stomach. So brokenhearted.

Mycroft felt dull, empty, like nothing else mattered. Nothing could ever matter again.

For he was a logical man. Gregory had been beaten and shot, something very few people survive.

He knew, though, Gregory was a fighter – but could he fight this badly? This hard?

Mycroft tried not to think about it, but could think of nothing else.

As he sat in the office in his chair, paper work before him, he could see nothing before his eyes but Gregory’s pale, beaten face.

And it killed him.

He hadn’t even realised he’d been dissociating before the phone rang.

Without looking at the caller ID, he answered.

  
“Yes?”

“Come to the hospital, quick,” Watson’s voice was clear and sounded desperate.

Without thinking another thought, Mycroft was on his way.


End file.
